


I, As Many

by seemewithacrown (infinifty)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Crimes & Criminals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:00:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinifty/pseuds/seemewithacrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock Holmes, aspiring freak that hasn't left his room in quite some time and hasn't used his brain for anything productive yet, wakes up in James Moriarty's custody. The latter has taken an interest in the 15 years younger mind and they both have a fantastic time planning the de- and reconstruction of society.</p><p>Kind-of-Dark!AU. Definitely AU though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking up (Prologue)

Sherlock awoke to the sound of his mobile phone recieving a text message.

Though he was in a bed he didn't recognise, he expected memories of some sort to come flooding in and was slightly unsettled when they didn't. 

Anyone other, possibly someone with a stable mind, would have feared for a worst-case-scenario (abducted and about to get murdered!) but Sherlock figured: He was in a cozy bed and it smelled faintly of pancakes, so what was there to go wrong? It's not like he had a job to lose or loved ones to worry about him.

He looked around the room (red walls, slighty pimp-y, the bed was in the middle of the room against the wall, windows to his left, an equally red couch and a door at the opposite wall, a white dresser on the right hand side) and found his cell phone and his wallet on the left one of both night stands. His keys must've gone missing. Huh.

The text he recieved from a certain James read "Good morning, sweetheart. Certainly you have questions. Come to the living room (you see the door) at once. - JM".

 _Interesting_ , he thought to himself and couldn't bring himself to care about what a sane human being would've cared about at that point.

He checked his wallet to find his money missing and was slightly offended by the rudeness of stealing from someone unconscious, but then he simply thought, _the pancakes better be worth it_.

After he flung the white fluffy blanket off rather carelessly and discovered that he was in white boxers, probably his, and a white T-shirt strainingly too small for him (he was an M and the tee must've been S at most, possibly women's cut), he couldn't help but wonder the slightest bit.

Though he did what he always did after that short wondering: He got up and went to where the smell of danger was coming from, hoping to find something satisfying at the other end of a very, very bad plan.


	2. Entrance Exam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. I quite like this one though. Hope you enjoy.

Sherlock walks over to the door, as instructed, of course, and opens the door to step into the doorway.

The next room lets him realise that he must be in a motel of some sort, the kind that's cheap but doesn't admit it, and the ordinarity of the living room only lets the man sitting in an armchair next to a worn-down couch with the same Victorian pattern and a wooden couch table stand out more.

There is tea served in expensive and out of place looking china on the table, and the man, presumably that interesting JM fellow, is wearing an equally expensive looking suit.  
He is displaying a pleasant smile when Sherlock enters, and though he must be in his mid thirties, his face has a childlike touch, somewhere between innocent and just plain creepy.

Sherlock doesn't pay much attention to the furniture in the room, only registering the small table next to what must be the door to the hallway, the telephone on it and the obviously cut cable of the phone (the frayed out end has been tucked loosely behind the table but is peeking out for anyone observant to see) and the work desk, curiously without any chair.

When the man on the arm chair is addressed with sore "James" by Sherlock, he even looks pleasantly surprised. Sherlock asks himself if there is any expression on this man that can't be described with 'pleasant'.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes, wonderful to see you up." A short pause in which Sherlock pondered what reaction was expected from him. "Oh, sit down, will you? And please, do not hesitate to call me Mr Moriarty. I've got some great tea and some even greater plans for you..."  
Sherlock does as he's told (what else would there be to do?) and accepts a small cup full of what may or may not be tea.

He holds it in his hands and realises that he's got a horrible taste in his mouth, like he hasn't brushed his teeth in days, so he starts sipping the tea. Black tea, probably cinnamon with raisins, from New Zealand or India, no sugar. He enjoys the taste and waits for Mr Moriarty to explain himself.

But the man only watches Sherlock as he drinks his tea, intently as if analysing, and then proceeds to pour metaphorically impossible amounts of sugar into his own little cup of tea before stirring it with a spoon, tapping the spoon onto the edge of the cup twice and putting it aside onto the table. Sherlock wonders where this guy forgot his manners. Possibly in Creepy-Kidnapping-Town, he thinks and is almost amused.

Finally, Mr Moriarty speaks up again.  
"So then, Sherlock Holmes? Any questions?"

Oh, Sherlock doesn't like this. Not one bit. There's too much room, and if he chose one question out of the thousands that might be relevant, he would give so much about himself away...

He spends almost two entire seconds on pondering the most vague and vast of all available questions at hand (Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? What has happened? What will happen? Is this tea from New Zealand or India?) and then settles on Why? because, with some luck, it will explain the Who, the What and maybe, with an unlikely amount of luck, the Where.

"Why am I here?", he asks, voice clear and steady.

There is a pause. "Why, yes, of course, why... Brilliant, in fact! I can't explain why without explaining who I am and what I do! Very good, Sherlock, very good."

Sherlock wonders if he should feel the praise as such or as an degradation but before he can waste too much time on that, Mr Moriarty's voice pierces through his thoughts again.

"My name is James Moriarty, as you might have noticed, and I take care of business." He giggles childishly. A weird sight he is, indeed. "Not always in a pleasant way, I fear. I organise and supervise. And you seem like someone who might fit as, say, an employee of mine."

The one in question answers without thinking, a nasty habit that he was going to have to get rid of sooner or later. "So this is the way you prefer to employ your men?"

Suddenly Mr Moriarty is anything but pleasant. He sets his tea aside carefully, leans towards Sherlock by putting his elbows on his knees and replies in a low voice.

"I get paid by those who want to see others suffer. But on you, I'd do it for free. I'd slice your eyes out and send them to your mother, cut off your nose and deliver it to your father and rip your heart out for your brother to receive. Now, please, you're a smart one, at least consider my generous offer."

Sherlock should be taken aback by that, he knows, but he can't help but marvel at the poetic and accurate way Mr Moriarty described the relationships to his close relatives by the body parts he'd send to them. Maybe just a coincidence. Probably not.

"What would I do?", he asks, this time without wondering about what it might give away about him. He's curious, for god's sake, and he hasn't been since he destroyed Lisa Sanders' life in middle school. She was a smart girl, but overrated in so many ways that Sherlock felt the need to take her down. Metaphorically, of course. He didn't kill her, he let her do it herself.

"Oh, it's rather simple," Mr Moriarty explains, and coming from him it indicates that it's anything but simple. "But I want to keep it spicy, so I won't spoil it." 

He grins, baring an attractive set of clean and straight teeth. "What would you want to do anyway, my dear Sherlock?"

A vague question again, and this time, Sherlock answers equally vague. He wants to play the man's game, after all.

"I chase the pleasures in life. I enjoy solving problems."

Mr Moriarty grins again and this time his eyes look dark and dangerous. It's the kind of view you'd turn your head from because it's simply unsettling in a very inhuman manner.

"Well, I create them." After declaring that, Mr Moriarty stands up, brushes a few tiny particles of dust off of his suit and walks, almost skips, over to the door light-footedly.

Sherlock wonders whether he isn't going to say any form of a goodbye, but just as Mr Moriarty pulls the door open, he dramatically swirls to face Sherlock again, singsongs an worryingly high "Laters!", slams the door shut behind him and Sherlock is left alone.

\---

After drinking the last of his tea, Sherlock went back into the bedroom. He found that the wardrobe contained a few casual clothes, and chose some dark grey sweat pants and a white button-down, the only thing article of top clothing that had his size. He opened all doors and drawers (found the door to what must've been the kitchen to be locked) but had gone mostly empty handed. He kept his phone and his wallet in his pockets, the night stand was empty, so was the bath room, except for three neatly stacked white towels.

It was exactly 55 minutes after Mr Moriarty leaving Sherlock to bore to death that the door to the corridor opens again and another man steps inside the room where Sherlock had sat down on the couch again.

He looks slightly older than, or just not as childlike as, Mr Moriarty, has messy blonde hair and is wearing a black tank top and some baggy khaki trousers with a duffel bag loosely slung over his shoulder. Not quite the sight Sherlock had expected, really.

With a look of complete disinterest, he introduces himself. "Hey, I'm Sebastian Moran, boss sent me to teach you how to fire a gun."

Rather curious, considering the fact that Sherlock had been Mr Moriarty's pet for barely 12 hours and he was already supposed to learn how to use firearms. When would his first job be on, then? In two and a half minutes? Jesus, this Moriarty really has no patience.

"Awesome," Sherlock merely replies, and waits for further instructions. Something he seems to do an awful lot these days. He can't really say he doesn't find it relaxing though, to have someone else take the lead once in a while.

Sebastian walks over to the table, takes the tablet with the china and sets it onto the floor behind the armchair carefully. It looks rather awkward.

Then, he proceeds to dump his bag onto the table, lets himself fall into the armchair and looks through the dubious bag. He gets out three hand guns that all look the same to Sherlock and sets the bag next to the armchair, dangerously close to the fine china.

"Suppose it doesn't help you much if I told you the names of these babies?", he inquires and his lack of expression calms Sherlock. In a good way.

"No," the latter answers.

"Thought so." Sebastian now even looks more bored, which Sherlock didn't think to be possible. "Right. So just take each into your hands and try to hold them. Tell me which you like best. You're ambidextrous, right?"

Sherlock doesn't care to question where he got that knowledge, merely makes a positive grunt and tries out the guns.

They're all very heavy and at first basically feel the same, but after some handling, he decides on the one that has the best fit in his long hands.


End file.
